Since the Shower
by Winged-Violoncelle
Summary: Scientific craziness would never have been the same at the Bart's morgue if, one fateful night, the very professional Dr. Molly Hooper hadn't forcefully shoved Sherlock Holmes under a shower. A series of St. Bart's morgue one-shots. *WARNING: excessive geekiness (and a bit of harmless nudity).* Ch4 guest: A very unfortunate John.
1. Proper Lab Safety

**A/N:** Rated T for, uh, later graphic description of gory things like dissections? Nothing's scary in this fic though. At least I don't think so. *smile*

A **collection of one-shots **all taking place in the morgue. This chapter takes place first in the time line, but the rest of the chapters are not necessarily in chronological order.

Lots of science involved. I did warn you about **excessive geekiness**, didn't I? Be prepared.

Molly-centric, not really romance, though I suppose you could deem it Sherlolly if you squint. I love Molly. And I'm a hardcore fan of the books. Which is saying something.

**People sometimes forget that Molly is a competent scientist, and _not_ just Sherlock's convenient door-mat.**

Reviews are loved, and constructive criticisms are worshipped. Effusive fangirling on (your imagination of) Benedict Cumberbatch is accepted wholeheartedly.

* * *

**Proper Lab Safety**

_"You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you." -SH_

Ever wondered how exactly Molly Hooper came to be her mousy little self wherever Sherlock Holmes was concerned? Contrary to popular belief, it didn't happen at first sight.

Molly had met Sherlock long before John Watson appeared in his life to soften his erratic behaviours. She couldn't exactly say she was charmed by their initial encounter. Any normal woman would be taken aback, to say the least, if a man she had shaken hands with only a moment ago suddenly launched into a detailed monologue that outlined snippets of her private life - from the fact that she had stayed up watching romantic dramas the previous night, all the way down to the name of her favourite brand of cucumber soap.

It took two weeks for Molly Hooper's impression of Sherlock Holmes to change from "perverted stalker" to "freak". It took two more weeks for it to change from "freak" to "smart-as-hell freak". Three more weeks passed before she dropped the word "freak", and it was not until a month later, when she saw him skilfully execute a perfect Western blot, Eastern blot, and Northern blot all in the course of a _single_ afternoon, that she came to respect him immensely and worship his intellect.

Molly was perfectly fine when everything concerning Sherlock Holmes stayed at the level of "respect". Sure, respect rose gradually as she spent more time assisting him with his cases. But it was kept capped at "respect", and Molly thought that was that. Besides, there were many things about him that irked her OCD self, like his horrible way of holding a pipette, or his complete lack of regard for lab safety. Molly usually left him be; she wasn't the type to dare correcting people other than her trainees, not to mention that Sherlock Holmes's over-the-top confidence was the last thing she wished to challenge.

She'd conversed easily with him like he was an ordinary (well, sort of) colleague, and often politely said goodbye and left the room whenever his terrible scientific conduct vexed her (seriously, how did he get better results?). But there was a day where she couldn't bring herself to leave, and that was when everything changed.

The night air was fine. The protagonists in the drama she'd been following had finally kissed and gotten together, and that was more than enough for her to face late night work and all her corpses with a big grin on the face. She hummed cheerfully as she wheeled a cadavre into the dissection room, and then proceeded to retrieve Einstein (her cart) and her dissection tools. Upon entering the lab, she spotted some familiar cheek bones and enthusiastically waved, "Oh hey Sher - "

Her speech cut off drastically when she saw the large container in his hands, and she squinted in disapproval.

Sherlock barely looked at her and was about to launch into a new round of deductions regarding what she'd been up to, but she didn't give him the opportunity to begin. "Is that sulfuric acid in your hands?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and snorted. "Silly question. Aren't you familiar with every container in the lab?"

"I am," Molly shut the door behind her and frowned. "That was a rhetorical question."

"Hmm, yes, rhetorical questions, a type of literary device used when the speaker is upset, sarcastic, or offended. You have a problem with my utilization of _your _container of sulfuric acid. Well, mine has run out; you can use mine when the new bottle comes in."

"No, no," Molly sighed. "I'm wondering why you're wearing an _expensive suit_, all the while holding a bottle of moderately concentrated _sulfuric acid_ with your _bare hands_."

Sherlock raised his other eyebrow and said, unamused, "Are you trying to learn how to observe like I do? If so, I suggest working on the details. That was failing-grade."

Molly groaned. A sunny mood had made her bolder and more flippant than usual. "_No_, genius, I'm telling you to wear a lab coat and gloves. I'm sure you don't need me to inform you what sulfuric acid can do to your expensive suit and your skin."

"Oh. Safety." Sherlock shrugged and began to loosen the bottle cap. "Don't bore me with that, Molly. I can fare better than you without it."

Molly had adapted to Sherlock's demeaning remarks, and usually turned and left with a quick goodbye when she heard them. Nevertheless, this time she was not going to let it slide: it was the first time she'd seen Sherlock work with corrosive material. She may be meek, but she was a responsible scientist. She simply couldn't leave a man in suit alone in the lab with a bottle of sulfuric acid in his bare hands.

She stormed over quickly and grabbed at the bottle. "I'm responsible for lab surveillance this week, Sherlock, and I can't allow you to continue."

"Hey!" Sherlock protested vehemently and clasped his hand tightly around the bottle. "Molly Hooper, I'm the best and only consulting detective in this world. I've dealt with things and people much worse than acid, and I don't need you to tell me what to do."

"If you're in your flat, you can _drink_ acid for all I care. But this is my lab, and I don't want to be blamed if anything happens." Molly tugged at the bottle persistently, her features compressed from exertion. "I'll return it immediately if you wear your lab coat and gloves. Now give me that! Er, please? "

"Oh no I won't, woman," Sherlock's hand gripped the bottle firmly, and he spat through gritted teeth, "There's no chance I'm getting myself into that hideous white coat. It'll offset my balance and cloud my mind, which will - "

_Splash_.

Molly's strength was no match for Sherlock's; before Sherlock could finish his sentence, she'd lost her grip and tumbled back with a yelp. By the time she recovered and opened her eyes, she saw Sherlock standing dumbly across from her with a blank look on his face, bottle in hand. A large wet stain covered at least half of his expensive suit.

_Clink, clink, clink_.

The lab was eerily quiet for a second, as the lone sound of a bouncing bottle cap echoed.

"Oh my God oh my God oh my God! I'm so sorry! When did you unscrew the cap?"

Molly was the one to react first, repeatedly screaming the name of deity as she scrambled into action. She confirmed first that no acid had spilled on herself, and immediately rushed to put on gloves. "Quick, put the bottle down, take off your clothes, and get under the shower!"

Sherlock stared dumbly at her and made no attempt to move.

"Oh _Lord_, I see the safety training video I made you watch didn't go into your genius brain!" Molly exclaimed in exasperation and rushed forward to take matters into her own hands. "Stupid little... why are they so hard to unbutton!?" By the time she'd won her war with the buttons and exposed Sherlock's skin, the consulting detective had regained enough senses to have set down the bottle. She easily ripped the shirt and the suit from him, and threw them into a corner by the window. Then she removed her gloves and shoved him hastily under the emergency shower. She pulled the lever (which had always tempted her whenever she walked by it) for the first time in her life, and cold water gushed forcefully over Sherlock's body.

Molly, after letting out a breath of relief, rushed to throw open all windows to allow ventilation. "Baking soda, baking soda, baking soda..." she muttered to herself and began scurrying to find the container in question, when Sherlock's (robotic) voice reminded, "Third bench, sixth drawer on the left."

"Oh thanks," Molly turned to nod to him, but when she saw his figure under the shower, she groaned once more and shouted, "Why the _bloody hell_ do you still have your pants on? Take it off, take it off! Do you _want_ acid to stick to your skin and burn it?"

Despite water flowing rapidly over his face, Molly could see that his eyebrows were raised. "Uh, maybe you should, uh, leave the room - "

"You just got a _litre_ of _sulfuric acid_ on yourself and you're worried about _modesty_?" Molly threw her arms in the air furiously when she'd finished fumbling through the drawer, baking soda in hand.

"Have got," Sherlock corrected quietly and obeyed.

Molly loosened the cap of the baking soda bottle, and glanced at Sherlock to ensure that he did as instructed. "Underwear too!" She slapped her forehead and shook her head upon seeing his progress. "I cut dead naked bodies for salary; I can take the sight of a living one!"

On finally ensuring that the shower was washing all surfaces of his skin, Molly patted her chest in relief, and began dispersing baking soda.

"It'ch _fweezing_," complained Sherlock, his voice obscured by trembles and gargles.

"Well, you're lucky they checked the shower last month," she grumbled with a pout, "Otherwise it might feel slimy as well."

Sherlock was too busy shuddering to argue. The silence was blissful to Molly.

"I'm going to find something to dry you up," said the pathologist as she finished her task. "Remember, don't move for fifteen minutes. No, actually, make that thirty, because you were so slow at removing your clothes. I'm locking the door and putting up a sign, so you don't have to worry about anyone else coming in. Not that anyone other than the ER guys is working at this unearthly hour."

Sherlock was still too busy shuddering to protest. Molly washed her hands and left the room like a boss with her head held high, slamming the door shut as if communicating her authority and rage to a misbehaving child.

It was only when she rummaged through the sheets in the morgue storage cabinet that her rage and nervousness calmed. And that was when the full impact of what she had seen and done hit her in the head.

Molly Hooper had just practically stripped Sherlock Holmes, world's most brilliant consulting detective, stark naked, locked him in a room full of evaporating acid, and left him under an emergency shower to freeze for an entire half hour.

Suddenly she babbled in gibberish and was red as a beet. Molly The Boss had vanished. Molly The Awkward And Meek was back.

Sure, she had learnt her safety policies well and done her duty perfectly. But it was the _first_ time she'd - _and gosh, he had a surprising amount of muscles for such a _- "Oh my _God_ no!" Molly flushed and covered her face with the sheet, until she realized that the sheet, despite having been disinfected, had coated probably about a hundred different cadavres. Then she threw the sheet onto the ground and groaned and knocked her head repeatedly against a wall.

_In many dramas I've watched, everything began when she saw him under a showe - _"_No_!" Molly bit her lip and knocked her head harder. "Remember, this is Sherlock Holmes, who is sociopathic and a jerk and frighteningly intelligent and a scientific genius and..." _The feeling of his back against her fingers!_ "I NEED AN ESPRESSO!"

She screamed in exasperation and hastily crumpled all the sheets into the storage cabinet. She had thirty minutes after all, which was plenty of time to cool down; when it was time to go back, she would be perfectly placid and indifferent, and everything would return to normal.

Molly ended up ordering three espressos before she was confident that she was fine. But when, at the thirty-minute mark, she stood in front of the locked lab door with a few sheets in hand, she almost turned away to buy another three.

"Okay, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out." She muttered to herself quietly, "Remember what you've said, Molly Hooper. This isn't the first time you've seen a naked man and there's no need to fuss about it. It was all done for the best and there's no _reason_ to fuss about it."

She inhaled sharply and slowly turned the key. Then she pulled the door open even more slowly, and, despite knowing full well that it was a stupid move, peeked.

Yep, still there under the running shower in the same _state_ as before.

Molly squeaked and jumped out and slammed the door shut.

Did she really tell him that she could take it? What the _hell_ was she thinking? It was _much_ harder to deal with a living naked man than to dissect a dead one!

Sherlock's angry voice did not give her time to calm down. "Molly Hooper! I know you're out there! If you don't get yourself and the towels in now, I will _phone_ someone to fetch my revolver. It's _bloody Antarctica _in here and I'm _convinced_ that I'm dying!"

Molly bit her lip and tiptoed through the door, fighting back embarrassed tears.

"Give. Me. The. Sheets." She heard Sherlock enunciate contemptuously, "I don't even care where you got them from, or if they're not disinfected. Just. Give. Them. To. Me. Now."

_Slowly, slowly. Stare placidly ahead above his left shoulder. Don't look down, don't look down, don't - oh God._ Molly's sight bounced uncomfortably around the room as she dragged her feet across the wet floor, holding the sheets in front of her and stretching her arms forward like a zombie.

"Hurry up! At this rate you'll take the whole day!" Sherlock roared in rage. Molly jumped and squeaked, and she closed her eyes and took a few large steps forward and threw the sheets forward and turned quickly around to inspect what was left of the acid puddles.

She was totally engrossed in observing Sherlock's ruined suit when she heard the shower stop running, and she was totally checking ventilation with her full attention when she heard Sherlock sigh in relief. "Ah, much better. I have wrapped myself with the Sheets of the Dead now, Molly, and you may turn around."

"I'mlookingatthewindows," mumbled Molly with a voice that buzzed feebly like flapping mosquito wings, obstinately refusing to turn her head.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the back of her lab coat and, as always, began observing. "This is a most interesting response indeed, as you're certainly lying. Your head isn't angled properly to be looking at the windows, not to mention that the windows are fully open and not worth staring at for minutes. The contrast between your earlier behaviour and your current behaviour suggests to me that you have recovered from the shock of the accident as I have, which means that your sympathetic nervous system has calmed. Now you have returned to the normal state, which gives you room to consider less urgent and more parasympathetic matters such as hunger and reproduction - "

"OKAY Sherlock Holmes, let's get you downstairs to the emergency room to apply some medicine and make sure everything's fine!" Molly abruptly spun around and bolted toward the door to hold it open, avoiding his inquisitive stare as she passed him.

"Get me some clothes," Sherlock shrugged and instructed as he walked through the door, "I'm not on speaking terms with my current flatmate, so calling him to bring some would be out of the question."

Molly found Sherlock some spare scrubs in the ER's storage as he was being treated. After the doctor complimented her on her quick and perfect response to the situation and ensured her that Sherlock was fine, she cleaned up the lab and left for home in a daze.

She was still in a daze when she came in the next morning, though she snapped out of it immediately when she spotted The Cheek Bones behind the microscope. He was in a different expensive suit and still wore no gloves, but he wasn't working with anything dangerous, and Molly was too tired and nervous to care.

"OhhelloI'mjustgettingreadyforworkokaythanksbye!" She scrambled and swept a bundle of equipment onto Einstein, and hastened to wheel the trolley out of the room.

Sherlock looked after her scurrying figure with a bewildered scowl. "Sentiment?" He muttered to himself questioningly, but soon gave up and shrugged. "Probably. Oh well. I won't understand. By the way, Molly, you left a body in the dissection room last night! You'd best deal with it before it's too late!"

He couldn't hold back a chuckle when he heard a high-pitched squeak in the hallway.

Molly Hooper would never know that the day on which she transformed into a C3H/HeN mouse in front of Sherlock Holmes was also the day on which Sherlock Holmes gave her his trust; Sherlock Holmes was one who liked to keep it quiet when he was impressed.

After all, she'd saved his skin for the first time. Literally.

* * *

_*Please note that this piece is not meant to encourage acid-spilling behaviour when one is alone in a lab with one's object of affection. Really._


	2. Proper Lab Technique

**Proper Lab Technique**

Molly Hooper always knew that Sherlock Holmes was not perfect. There were some things he did, or said, or even thought (because sometimes Molly imagined that she could deduce his thoughts from the looks he gave her), that were simply... nerve-wracking. Fascinating - because even Sherlock's imperfections intrigued Molly more than anything else in her life - but _nerve-wracking_ all the same.

People always assumed that Molly Hooper was most upset about the nasty things Sherlock often said to her. For one, John, if he visited the morgue with Sherlock, forever and always had a sympathetic look on his face whenever Sherlock said anything to her. But the truth was, Molly never blamed Sherlock for that. Sure, she would sometimes feel disheartened and storm off in Molly-style rage, but in a little while she would shake her head and tell herself, hey, this was Sherlock after all. He barely cared for the emotions of anyone except for, maybe, John.

No. What _really_ ticked Molly off were the things that she saw Sherlock do, which normally had no direct connections with her work or her life at all.

For example, here he was now, analyzing the chemical properties of tobacco ashes in the lab because all the reagents in his flat had been used up. She was isolating DNA from a blood sample for a forensic team investigating a murder he had no interest in. It would be most logical if they didn't converse, did their own work, and then left separately for their own errands.

But this time Molly was fed up. Ever since she'd first met Sherlock, she'd seen him do _this _four hundred and sixty-nine times. Not that she intentionally counted or anything, but she was sick of it, absolutely sick of the sight. Perhaps the three espressos and two cappuccinos she'd drunk in the morning had made her bolder than usual; this time she was determined to talk to - no, _chide_ Sherlock about that cardinal sin he was committing with his hand.

She stormed (Molly-style) toward him with a (Molly-style) stern frown on her face, and waited (Molly-style) impatiently for him to finish slowly releasing a drop of bromophenol blue from his pipette tip.

He noticed her approach like how he noticed everything else, and grumbled a very annoyed "_What_?" without looking. Molly tried to roll her eyes and took a deep breath to calm her (Molly-style) rage. Then she began _very_ menacingly, "Um, Sherlock..."

"Oh for God's sake, just spit it out. You're taking too long and I'm doing important work."

"But, um, all I said was 'um' - "

"Which is why I'm telling you to spit it out. 'Um' is the most meaningless sound in the English language, or any language really."

"But it only takes a second to say - "

"No, it takes _less _than a second to say 'um', and now you're really just wasting my time. And your own time, too. Don't you have work to do as well for that little team that investigates the Manchester case? I took a quick glance at the case files pinned to the little bulletin board by the door. The brother's the murderer, _obviously_. Why do they even need a team for something so elementary? What exactly goes on in your team leader's funny little brain? I can tell just from the orientation of the blood spots in the photograph that - "

"_You're holding the autopipette wrong, Sherlock!_"

The Molly-style scream, which was really not much louder than her normal speech, was very powerful in its content this time, and caught Sherlock's attention perfectly. His pipette-holding hand paused in midair and he cut his monologue short. A drop of bromophenol blue dangled at the tip of the pipette still, as the consulting detective turned rigidly and stared straight into the pathologist's eyes.

Molly flinched and took a step back with a squeal.

"First. Wrong_ly. _Second. I. Am. Never. Wrong." Sherlock enunciated, slowly and contemptuously, and glared at Molly with a scowl as if daring her to reply.

Molly gulped and almost fled, but then she glanced at Sherlock's pipette-holding hand and was determined again. Three espressos and two cappuccinos could get her far.

"Y-Yes you are, for this at least," she winced as she saw Sherlock's brows furrow further. "You... you're not supposed to angle the pipette like that. You have to keep the pipette upright. If you angle it too much, the chemicals can flow from the tip into the pipette, and it'll contaminate the pipette, which might in turn contaminate your future samples!"

Sherlock's frown deepened. He looked stoically at the pipette which he held horizontally in his hand, and then back at Molly. "You think I don't know this?" his voice was displeased and indignant.

"No, no, of course not!" Molly stammered and waved "no" awkwardly with her hands. "I just thought maybe I could... remind you..."

"Ah, so you think I've forgotten it. Well, I haven't, and I don't, need, your, reminder," Sherlock spat through gritted teeth and turned back to his samples. "I happen to _prefer_ using my autopipettes this way; I can observe the elegance of force pushing out a drop of liquid much better. Besides, I am very precise. I am certain that the amount of liquid I collect in the pipette tip is not _abundant_ enough for backflow into the instrument itself if I keep my hand still. Off you go to investigate that stupid case, and stop badgering me."

"Sherlock, please... accidents can happen, and these pipettes are very expensive."

"No, accidents happen only to _ordinary_ people. And since St. Bart's is full of average _Homo sapiens_, I'm sure it has a budget that covers such _accidents_, as you call them. I would call them ignorance and idiocy. Naming them 'accidents' is too kind."

"But - "

"Leave; I need to finish this in exactly fifteen minutes."

Molly bit her lip and meekly nodded, though she knew Sherlock would not see it. It was already four o'clock in the afternoon, but she went to the café across from St. Bart's and bought herself another espresso.

That was the end of the autopipette issue, or so Molly thought until, two days later, all of her tissue extraction samples turned unexpectedly blue after incubation.

Molly glared at the rack of blue samples indignantly. This was the first time her lab bench-work had failed her since she graduated, and there was only one explanation for this blasphemy. A colleague had borrowed her 1mL autopipette, so she had used Sherlock's to aliquot the buffer to bathe the tissues in.

And just as she was about to pry open Sherlock's pipette to see whether it was beyond remedy, the team leader for the Manchester case, a stout, grumpy little man named George Georges, entered the lab for a progress inspection. Upon seeing the disastrous test tubes, he instantly flew into a fit of rage. "Molly Hooper! Contamination at this level, and for samples of a case so important! Unacceptable!"

Molly cringed and tried to hide Sherlock's pipette in her pocket. "I'm really sorry, Dr. Georges! I will re-extract the samples right away."

But Dr. Georges, despite his unfortunate looks, was a shrewd man. "What are you stuffing away in your pocket? Ah, a pipette, I see. Disassemble it and show me. Now!"

Molly nervously obeyed. As soon as she detached the shaft she felt an urge to groan. Everything was blue within it. But before she could even make a sound, Dr. Georges's angry voice made her jump and squeak. "Aha! Is this what the younger generation has come to? Am I correct to conclude that Dr. Molly Hooper, a rigorously trained and qualified forensic pathologist, was not using an _autopipette_ properly and was forgetting something that should have been drilled into any first year undergraduate student's head?"

Molly looked at the tips of her shoes and chewed her lip. Her brain told her to say: "It was all stupid Sherlock Holmes's fault." But it came out as something else. "Yes, Dr. Georges. This is all my fault, and I'm deeply sorry. I will work overtime today to clean and autoclave the pipette, and then repeat my experiments."

"This is a _hospital_, Molly Hooper, not some laid-back research lab where you can get away with amateur blunders by saying sorry and repeating your experiments!" Dr. Georges slammed the lab bench with his fat fists. "And we're investigating a _murder_! Even the slightest possibility of contamination must be eliminated. Borrow a clean one to complete your extraction repeat, and replace this pathetic blue one. Don't expect anyone to fund you on that. You'd damn best work overtime _every_ night until this case is entirely over, and I'll make sure you don't get paid for it!"

Molly could do no more than nod her head repeatedly, as Dr. Georges stomped out and slammed the door. Then she wiped her eyes with a Kimwipe and scurried to find every pipette in the lab that Sherlock may have touched.

Molly ended up spending about a thousand pounds on new pipettes. It was all terrible timing; she'd given most of her savings on her bank account to her mother for breast cancer therapy, and, thanks to Sherlock and Dr. Georges, it would be weeks before she would get her next paycheque.

A few days after all the new pipettes arrived, Sherlock came in again to analyze the two hundred and twenty-third type of tobacco ash. Molly had gotten six hours of sleep in total for the past three days, and hardly noticed his entrance.

"Huh. You have been eating unusual things for an entire week now."

Molly nearly jumped out of her own skin at the sudden declaration. "How... how did you..." She stuttered and patted her chest repeatedly to calm the wild heartbeats of surprise.

"It's elementary, Molly. Excluding the obvious fact that I saw six instant noodle containers in the garbage bin outside which I have never seen before, I'm well aware that you've got that obsessive-compulsive disorder that every pathologist or every scientist suffers from to a certain extent. Excepting when you go out for lunch dates - you really ought to cut it out with your attempts at romantic relationships, given how horrible you are at them - you always eat a fancy home-made turkey sandwich for lunch, beginning at 1:17pm. You finish at 1:27pm, and despite your attempts to wipe all evidence of ingestion from your face, you often miss a few tiny specks of mustard. It is now 1:28pm, and your face has no mustard on it, so you must've eaten something else for lunch. If you've only spontaneously decided to eat loose food for a change today, there should still be sandwich wrappings in the bin outside from earlier days of the week, but I didn't see any. The garbage is taken out every Thursday afternoon, and today is Wednesday. The number of days passed since last Thursday coincides with the number of instant noodle containers I saw. Therefore I must conclude that this isn't entirely whimsical: you have fed on instant noodles - disgusting - for the past week at least. By the way, why do your napkins always have atrocious cartoonish representations of the feline kind upon them? I hardly think it's rational - "

"Sherlock, not now, please," As fascinated as Molly often was by Sherlock's observant nature, she was not always in the mood to admire. "I need to finish a coagulation assay for the Manchester case."

"They're _still_ investigating?" Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat down by the microscope to grind his tobacco ashes. "Good God, what _is_ in your team leader's funny little brain? George Georges, was that his name? Very silly. Probably was never on good terms with his parents. No, don't ask me how I knew; his name was right there on the bulletin board, and I hardly think parents who name their child almost exactly after the family name would care much about him. It's about the laziest way to name a baby there is. Well, I almost want to join the case just so I can observe the extent of George Georges's stupidity. But it's not worth it. I already know all the particulars about that case, and it would be way too boring."

Molly prepared her samples and didn't bother replying.

Sherlock reached for the pipette and paused upon feeling the different texture. "New pipettes?"

"Yes," Molly said absentmindedly, "It was time for them to get replaced. Higher orders."

"Well I don't see why. This is a weird time. The old ones worked perfectly fine last time I was here." Sherlock shrugged and prepared to pipette up some bromophenol blue again, when his hand suddenly froze in midair.

New pipettes. Wrong time of the year to get them. Higher orders from presumably George Georges the imbecile. Instant noodles for the past week. And Sherlock remembered, with much dread, that he may have tilted his hand a little too much when he was indignantly discussing proper pipette technique with Molly a little more than a week ago.

Sherlock looked at the back of Molly's lab coat and opened his mouth in an attempt to say a word that began with "s". But it just wouldn't come out no matter how hard he tried, because every time the word was about to sound, he remembered he had said that accidents only happened to ordinary people. Sherlock would rather die than admit outright that he had been one of _those_.

Sherlock blinked repeatedly, and the gears in his brain turned rapidly in search for a proper response. Surely there was something he could say to her other than the "s" word, or maybe something he could do instead?

When Molly finished work and felt in the mood enough to observe Sherlock a little, she saw something _very_ shocking, and blurted before she could check herself, "You're holding the pipette upright today!"

"So it would seem," was Sherlock's unusually swift reply.

"Whatever happened to 'observing the elegance of force pushing out a drop of liquid'?" There was a smile on Molly's face now, and she teased before she realized that she was teasing.

"When you observe as much as I do, you get tired sometimes." Sherlock grumbled, his head still lowered, the tip of his nose almost touching his Petri dish. "Now stop disturbing me and do your work, or actually, go get something decent to eat. I'd tell you all the details about the harm of instant noodles if I had time."

"I'll make you coffee," Molly turned away with a dimpled grin. She had understood Sherlock and she had triumphed, and she definitely did not imagine it this time.

* * *

**A/N:** If you don't believe that Sherlock made such an elementary (heehee) mistake, go watch footage of Sherlock pipetting, and then look up the proper way of holding a pipette. I suppose, though, that he has reasons for everything he does. I tried to rationalize it even though it went against my scientific OCD in every way. That's how much I love Sherlock and Cumberbatch. :P

Review and constructive criticisms are much welcomed and make my insides wiggle like beloved fishes.


	3. Cardiac Neuroanatomy

**Cardiac Neuroanatomy**

Molly Hooper pulled up the edges of her gloves and sprayed her hands with ethanol. She surveyed the room and sighed at its emptiness. There was no furnishing save two trolleys, if those could be counted as furnishing at all. One was a small treatment cart that she named affectionately "Einstein," and it held all the equipment she needed. The other was quite large, and on it lay her primary human companion for New Year's Eve. Except he was immobile, mute, deaf, and certainly quite dead.

Molly had never liked the dissection room, with the depressing white fluorescent lights overhead and the atrocious smell of formaldehyde that indicated death; there was no window, and the ventilation of the hospital was never much good. Molly knew that she really should've gotten used to the atmosphere by now; heck, she'd been working in a _morgue_ for years, and often put in more hours than she would've liked. But every time before she dissected a body, she still flinched a little inside, and wished she'd put in a little more effort in her first round of undergraduate studies and made it to optometry school instead. Sometimes she thought her recurring queasiness was rather ridiculous. Other times she was glad she still felt it.

She looked at the ghastly pale face of the cadavre, and felt that queasiness in her stomach again as she picked up her scalpel and her tweezers. _Why_ had she agreed to do this on New Year's Eve again? Oh, right, because Sherlock had asked.

She stared with a frown at the body for a moment and groaned. Pfft, "Sherlock had _asked_", what an idea. More like Sherlock had _demanded_. And she was just such a squeaky, meek little C3H/HeN mouse in front of Sherlock. Well, there went her date with the dentist she'd met three days ago. She'd sort of liked the guy, too, and was convinced that she'd found someone who could take her mind off of Sherlock forever, until Sherlock barged in on her a few hours ago and made her flip her Petri dish and spill wet agarose gel all over her lab coat.

A moment of Molly-style rage seized her as she mentally thrashed Sherlock's inconsiderateness (with Molly-style curses, of course) and her own submissiveness, and she coped with her rage by throwing down her equipment and - turning on her iPod. Pink's "So What" had been on repeat for a few days now. She turned the volume up until the fiery chorus filled the room, and, after hyperventilating to it for moments, she felt a little calmer and more like a content rock star. She sprayed her hands again just in case, and picked up the scalpel and the tweezers again. Collecting postmortem cerebrospinal fluid was no easy task. She'd best start soon if she wanted out by midnight.

So Molly sat to the tune of "So What", and cut and sliced away at the skull for a long while, until the outermost of the three meninges became visible.

The dura mater was the outermost layer that protected the brain, and it was opaque and quite hard; in her trainee days, Molly often found it hard to cut past it without accidentally using too much strength and inflicting damage to the brain within.

The arachnoid mater sat right below the dura mater, softer and more delicate in its ways. It functioned to drain and replace old cerebrospinal fluid that bathed the brain. It was inseparable from the dura mater, unless the cerebrospinal fluid was infected. And given that the deceased died from severe meningitis, there was definitely infection in the CSF. Surely the two layers were separated by fluid now?

Molly set down her tweezers and grabbed a test tube as she wiggled the scalpel carefully through the dura mater. Fluid gushed as the tip of her blade punctured the layer skillfully, and she hastened to collect it.

Molly eliminated a chunk of the dura mater and let excess cerebrospinal fluid drain. There would be more fluid between the arachnoid mater and the pia mater as well, and she wanted a sample for that, too. She easily navigated her blade through the soft arachnoid mater, and, after finishing the fluid collection, waited again for drainage. She stared at the intricate folds of the brain that became more and more visible.

She'd always loved to learn about the brain the most in school. The sheer number of functions for which the brain was responsible was astonishing, just as how astonishing it was to learn of the sheer number of things that Sherlock could do. In fact, she'd almost always thought of Sherlock as a perfect walking brain. Okay, maybe not perfect; the Sherlock Brain lacked a fully functional limbic system, or any other parts that were responsible for emotion and sociability.

But it was an impressive brain nonetheless, though, like all other brains, this Sherlock Brain must be fragile. Molly knew that it must be. Sometimes she thought she could see past his socially despicable front and discover some sadness within, when John was being angry with him, maybe. Sometimes she wished to go up to him and comfort him, but then she remembered that she'd never counted in his life. It was hard enough to be noticed, let alone _interact_. And she wasn't sure if her deductions were right. This was Sherlock after all. How was it possible that Molly Hooper could understand his emotions? No, no, the question to ask was: did Sherlock even _have_ emotions?

Molly pouted and poked her scalpel absentmindedly at the meninges, annoyed by her bloated fancy that she understood him, yet obstinately wishing it were true. But either way she was sure that the Sherlock Brain didn't need her concern; it already had many layers of protection.

Mrs. Hudson was the soft arachnoid mater that kept the Sherlock Brain's external environment in check. She cleared away all the messes that Sherlock must've often made in 221b Baker Street, and provided him with a comfortable apartment (most of the time) and clean air. Clean air was like the cerebrospinal fluid that bathed the brain. Surely the Sherlock Brain could not function too well without it? Molly chuckled at the image of Sherlock trying to deduce under an exaggerated pile of trash.

John was the hard dura mater. Molly giggled at the thought; she could hardly imagine John in the tough guy's role, for he was much kinder than Sherlock, though sometimes just as awkward. But she'd read John's blog, and knew just what this army surgeon was capable of. Besides, he was so important to Sherlock; it would definitely take effort for a scalpel of malice to cut through the John Dura Mater without harming the Sherlock Brain. Not to mention that the Sherlock Brain would perhaps devise devious ways to repel evil scalpels before they could even reach the John Dura Mater.

And Mycroft was the skull that enclosed everything! Molly laughed out loud at the notion, and wondered what Mycroft would say if she told him that she'd compared Sherlock to a brain and him to a skull. A boring, unthinking, obstinately protective skull.

Of course, there was also Lestrade. Where would Lestrade fit in? Molly examined the cadavre's brain carefully, and noticed the thin, transparent little veil that surrounded the brain and was left uncut:

The pia mater, the innermost layer of the three meninges. The layer that enwrapped the brain so well, the layer that faithfully coated the brain's every fold - every single gyrus and sulcus. And there were many, many folds in a brain.

Lestrade didn't quite work as a pia mater, did he? Molly thought to herself with a frown. He'd probably work better as hair, or the periosteum of the skull, maybe. But he was not a pia mater. The pia mater was so transparent that it was hard for anybody to care for it or even notice it. No, Molly fancied herself to be more suitable a pia mater for the Sherlock Brain than anyone else.

But the pia mater was also a vital blood-brain barrier that protected the brain from basic danger. What could she say to justify herself in that a role? Molly bit her lip. Nothing.

There was suddenly a loud knock on the door, followed by some muffled yelling that sounded faintly like "Hurry up, woman!" Molly snapped out of her daze with a squeal. Huh. She was sure she'd hung a "DO NOT DISTURB" sign outside. She sighed and yelled back "I'll try my best," and turned the body around to collect specimen from the spinal cord. What was she thinking, assigning her acquaintances to parts of the brain during an emergency dissection?

Still, it amazed her how a seemingly bland science like neuroanatomy could be related at all to an analysis of relationships and hearts. Cardiac neuroanatomy? Molly chuckled at the nonsensical idea. Perhaps she could impress Sherlock with this cute theory if she brought it up during their next conversation.

Sherlock had gone off elsewhere when Molly came out of the dissection room. She refrigerated what was left of the body, and took the samples into the lab. There she analyzed the samples under the microscope, still smiling as she pondered the Sherlock Brain Theory while writing down pathogens she found. By the end of her pathogen analysis, she'd grown very fond of it.

"Well? Have you found anything? I haven't got all night!"

As usual, Sherlock barged in on her when she was least expecting it, though thankfully she was only cleaning up slides this time.

"_Escherichia coli_, _Staphylococcus aureus_, and _Streptococcus pneumoniae_," Molly replied after getting over the shock, "You're right, it _is_ all very unnatural. How could so many pathogens be in a single person's CSF?" She paused, and added with a stammer, "B-But then you're always right, of course."

But Sherlock was looking intently at what was left of the samples now, and Molly was sure he had stopped listening some time ago. Soon he waved Molly aside and sat down on the lab chair. His brows were furrowed, and he tapped his fingers together in muse.

Molly hadn't often had the opportunity of watching him when he was lost in thoughts, but when she had, she'd cherished every moment of it. This time, though, a little devil inside her egged her on to talk, for she was so proud of her Sherlock Brain Theory and wished to share it at all costs.

"Um, Sherlock, I have a little joke that I thought of while I was dissecting - "

"It must've been him. But how did he accomplish it? No, no, no, I must reconsider this part..."

"Well, when I was dissecting, I thought of an interesting analogy - "

"The injection; it must have left a mark. Bollocks! Where is the key piece of the puzzle? Think! Think!"

"- I thought that you could be a brain, and Mrs. Hudson could be the arachnoid mater, and John could be the dura mater - "

"Oh for God's sake, Molly, would you shut it! You're invading my Mind Palace! His license... the victim's medical history..."

Molly's voice trailed off, and she cringed smaller with every word she spoke. But even then she would not give up. "- A-And Mycroft could be the skull and Lestrade the hair... There, that's my joke of the day. Mycroft, a skull! Isn't it... isn't it funny how well that works?"

"Aha! I've got him now!" Suddenly Sherlock jumped off the chair, wearing that smirk of eureka on his face, and bolted toward the door.

Molly was too familiar with his rushed exits, and silently stepped aside. Soon Sherlock was out of the lab, leaving the sounds of footsteps echoing down the hallway of the hospital, along with a hasty yet harsh message to the pathologist, "And Molly, _please_, you've forgotten the pia mater! How a person who dissects for a career can miss it is beyond me."

"Happy New Year," Molly croaked, long after the echoes have died away. She wiped her eyes with a Kimwipe and began to clean the microscope.

Molly did not think about her brilliant Sherlock Brain Theory again long after that, not until when Sherlock looked upon her face earnestly for the very first time, and approached her with the absolutely outrageous suggestion. And under such a circumstance, she certainly wasn't the one who thought first of her crackpot theory.

She was too shocked by everything that had happened - abductions, murders, Sherlock's defamation, Jim - and she was too nervous to think about anything other than how to get every little detail of Sherlock's plan right. For once she was leaving the lab before Sherlock, though she could not run like him because she was trembling. What if it didn't turn out right? What if Sherlock jumped and... She stared at her feet and could hardly move more than a few steps from the lab door. She began hyperventilating and shuddering in fright. She was sure she was about to burst in tears, but it was then that she heard Sherlock's deep voice whisper behind her,

"Molly, you, uh, I think you make a great pia mater."

She looked up and didn't tremble any more. She could make it work. She would _definitely _make it work.

She slung the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder and began to run down the dark hallway. She was the pia mater, and no one could stop her now.

* * *

**A/N: **Review please, even if only to tell me how much of a geek I am, or, if you're geekier than myself, to point out my scientific blunders. :) And of course I always love constructive criticism.


	4. Sleeping Beauty Transposon

**A/N: **It seemed that SH was upset that I mixed up Mind Palace and Mind Castle, alas. That has been corrected, I assure you. On the other hand, SH suggesting more Sherlolly? It made me smile infinitely.

On the matter of Sherlolly romance, though, I might have to wait and see how Series 3 goes. And if I write it, it'll probably be in a different story. That said, I'm the last person in the world to object to Sherlolly friendship fluff, so here you are with some more of that.

By the way. This chapter is quite nonsensical (well, more so than the other ones) and not to be taken seriously. (Though if you DO take it seriously, I'd be very honoured and thankful. xD)

If you have any geeky ideas or constructive criticisms, please drop 'em in a review! :)

* * *

**Sleeping Beauty Transposon**

"Molly, what are you doing?"

Molly jerked and spun around, marker in hand. Her heart fluttered as she recognized the skeptical countenance of the world's only consulting detective.

"Oh hello Sherlock," she chuckled nervously, tiptoeing in an attempt to hide the sketches on the white board from his sight. It was probably futile, because he was so much taller. "It's nothing. I'm just designing an experiment to insert the green fluorescent protein gene into a pig embryo."

"Oh really?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow and remarked flatly, "Does the GFP gene sequence, which should consist solely of four letters of the alphabet, take the shape of a human? Don't lie, Molly; you know it's useless to try and hide anything from me. You were distracted and drawing; I could see it the moment I entered the lab and observed your hand movements."

"I didn't think anybody would be here at six in the morning," Molly muttered more to herself than to Sherlock, and submissively stepped aside, shoulders sagged.

"I am not _anybody_, am I?" Sherlock reminded with a shrug and turned to the board. His features sank into a frown. "...What in God's name is this?"

Molly bit her lip. Normally she would be flustered whenever Sherlock asked a question, but this time she was only trying very hard to refrain from smiling. "Nothing. Just my vision of the Sleeping Beauty, I suppose."

Sherlock looked blankly from Molly's jolly face to the drawing, and back to Molly again.

"This is not some sleeping fairytale princess," he declared out loud at last, both eyebrows raised. There was a strange expression on his face that mingled curiosity and disgust. "_This_, Molly, is _John Watson in a dress_."

Molly turned away and cleared her throat. "Please, Sherlock. What gave you that idea?"

"No, no, no, don't do that sarcasm thing; it doesn't suit you," Sherlock groaned and inched his face closer to the picture on the board. "You took art lessons in college; not only is it painfully obvious from my occasional glimpses at your lab notebook drawings of experimental apparatus, you also sometimes babble this to me yourself. Didn't you often say you're best at drawing caricatures? This is John, Molly. This is John in a_ bloody pink princess dress_."

He scowled and turned to her when she didn't reply, and saw with vexation that she was giggling into her hands. "Molly, just answer this question for me. _Why?_"

"We all feel silly sometimes," Molly replied with an expressive smile at her lips. "Besides, the drawing is really just my take on Sleeping Beauty with a... um, slightly manly face. It's not... it's not John at all." Her last words were slurred, and she had to turn away again to stifle another giggle.

Sherlock maintained his stare at her, unamused. "All right. Suppose this really isn't John with breasts. Explain now to me the identity of the figure beside Jo - the _princess _- who appears about to - " he paused, lips twitching in extreme distaste as he fished for the right words to say. "- _contact his lips_ to... '_her_' countenance. It'll be hard to convince me that it's not me, particularly when you've drawn an arrow to the cheek and annotated it informatively as '_Sherlock's zygoma xxxxxx_'. In multiple colours."

Molly blushed and fidgeted with the edges of her lab coat in genuine nervousness this time. "Well, j-just because he has your cheek bones doesn't mean that he's necessarily a representation of you - "

"_Molly._"

"All right, all right!" God, how she hated it when he spoke in that pressing and authoritative tone. "I got distracted when I was designing my experiment and started thinking about the Sleeping Beauty transposon system. I... I started personifying it."

Her voice trailed off, and she glanced repeatedly at the detective for his reactions. Sherlock continued to stare blankly at her with a raised brow, and made no effort to respond.

Could it be that he didn't know about Sleeping Beauty transposons? "Um, a transposon is a segment of DNA that jumps around in a genome and inserts itself to different places. We connect it to foreign genes and use it to insert the foreign genes into an embryo's genome, so we can express foreign genes in an animal and study the genes' effects. It's really useful for many different types of experiments! And, um, well, the Sleeping Beauty transposon is one of the many types of transposons, and it's called Sleeping Beauty because - "

"Because at the time scientists first discovered it, it was inactive and couldn't insert itself into other genomes. Its activity was restored by artificial resurrection, hence the name 'Sleeping Beauty'." Sherlock finished off impatiently, rolling his eyes as Molly's head lowered in embarrassment. "Of _course_ I know what it is, Molly. I want to know _why_."

"B-But I've already told you. I got distracted - "

"_Why me and John?_"

"Oh," Molly couldn't hold back her smile, and for a while forgot all about her embarrassment. "Well... I mean... John was limping pretty badly when I saw him for the first time. I didn't think working with you on your cases could restore his leg so quickly. And to think you make him do all those incredible things now! Fighting criminals, investigating crime scenes, interrogating people... I've read his blog, you know, and it's just amazing to see what he can do - "

"For God's sake, not his _blog_ again!" Sherlock groaned in exasperation, but Molly was too excited narrating her rationale to care. "- You definitely brought out all his hidden abilities, Sherlock! He was a perfect Sleeping Beauty transposon, and your kiss was just what he needed to resume activity!"

A silence followed. Molly was smiling to herself until she saw an apparently revolted expression on Sherlock's face. Then she thought carefully about what she had just said, and soon squeaked and waved her arms and babbled incoherently, "Oh God. T-That's not what I mean. I mean that you were just the right artificial kiss - artificial resurrection - oh _God_."

She scrambled under Sherlock's skeptical gaze and grabbed at the eraser. "Never mind. I'm just going to erase this now and then we can all get to work peacefully."

"No, no," Sherlock seized her wrist before the eraser could touch the board, the strange frown on his face slowly morphing into a mischievous smile. "Molly, that is actually surprisingly accurate."

"Really?" Molly's jaw dropped, and her eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. _The kiss?_

But Sherlock didn't seem to hear her, as he released her wrist and began intensively musing at the drawings. "Indeed, Sleeping Beauty transposons lack the ability to jump around the genome until they are artificially resurrected. John lacked the ability to jump around, period, because of his leg. While the problem with John's leg was rather more psychological than physical, it's true that the taxi driver case, which was _my_ case, was what snapped him out of it. It's also clear that _I _was the one who persuaded him to join my work and re-kindled his yearning for thrill and danger! Rather fitting comparison, Molly, and you had best cherish this comment, because illogical things such as similes and metaphors rarely pass my standards of reason."

Molly didn't quite know how to respond. _So he _didn't_ catch my comment about the kiss? _Her brows began to furrow, but soon she didn't question it any more. It was Sherlock she was dealing with after all. What could he possibly know about (unintentional) innuendos?

Before she could chuckle to herself at her silliness, however, Sherlock's surprisingly upbeat voice interrupted. "In fact, because your comparison is so fitting, Molly, I'm now convinced that I should at least try to get John into a frilly dress."

_Seriously?_ Molly tried very hard to contain her laugh and, as a result, projected a stifled oink.

Sherlock glanced at her with a raised brow, as if not comprehending her amusement. "Do you object, Molly? You started it after all." He pointed a long index finger in all seriousness at the supple, inflated chest of the Sleeping Beauty Transposon John caricature.

"N-No," Molly wiped away happy tears. "But... _why_?"

"Good flatmates must learn to share everything, as Mrs. Hudson often says," replied Sherlock dryly. "I don't think I've ever seen John in embarrassing clothing, while he has seen me in nothing more than a sheet in Buckingham Palace. I hardly think it's fair."

_I don't _want_ to know_, Molly thought, trying very hard to force scandalous non-cartoon images of Sherlock and John away from her imagination.

"Well now, where can I find a God-awful pink princess dress?"

At the sight of Sherlock eagerly rubbing his hands together like a mischievous child, Molly couldn't help but sweetly smile.

"I think I can help."

* * *

_'What the HELL did you and Sherlock get up to yesterday!?  
-JW .06:15AM'_

Molly was smiling when she heard an alert and saw John Watson's name on her phone screen. Molly was giggling into her palm when she read the text. Molly was grinning like a fool when she typed her reply.

_':S I don't know what you're talking about.  
-Molly .06:16AM'_

_'SURE you don't! I'm not stupid, you know! I just "observed" as Sherlock often so pompously told me to, and I saw YOUR NAME sewn inside that hideous dress!  
-JW .06:18AM'_

Molly had to walk away from her experiments, because she was trembling with amusement.

_'LOLOLOL DID HE ACTUALLY DO IT OMG :DDDD  
-Molly .06:18AM'_

_'I KNEW it! I KNEW you were somehow involved!  
-JW .06:19AM'_

_'Hardly a difficult deduction, as SHERLOCK HOLMES would often say!  
-JW .06:21AM'_

_'It was emotionally TRAUMATIZING! You owe me a big apology, and so does Sherlock!  
-JW .06:23AM'_

_'Hello?  
-JW .06:25AM'_

_'I swear, if you're ignoring me!  
-JW .06:30AM'_

Molly _was_ ignoring him, partly because she was laughing too hard, and partly because she was trying to re-draw Sleeping Beauty Transposon John on her white board; how could she bear going back to work when John was being so delightfully hilarious and re-wakening all her drawing vibes? In fact, she was completely prepared to turn her phone on silent and concentrate on her sketch, until John's next text caught her eye.

_'Well I hope the First-Aid Kit in your lab is stocked!  
-JW .06:32AM'_

_'What? Why?  
-Molly .06:32AM'_

_'OH YOU'LL FIND OUT!  
-JW .06:33AM'_

Molly's smile faded, and worry clouded her face. She quickly texted a string of "HELLO"s and other inquiries to the angry Dr. Watson, even a few apologies. But John never replied again.

Thankfully, Molly was not kept in suspense for long. At 6:45AM, the door to her lab burst open, and in came Sherlock with a large, bleeding bruise at a corner of his lips.

"Good God!" Molly exclaimed and scrambled toward the First-Aid Kit behind the door (which was, fortunately, well-stocked). "Sherlock, what happened?" She asked anxiously, even though she was quite certain she knew.

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly and sat on her chair, twinkles in his eyes. "All that was supposed to happen happened. Well, except for one thing I couldn't really avoid. Anyway. Approximately an hour ago, I successfully woke before John and, observing that he was rather deeply asleep, I _stuffed_, shall I say, him into the princess dress."

Molly pursed her lips as she cleaned his wound, not sure if she should be more amused or concerned. "B-But you didn't kis - "

"Of course I didn't kiss him! I 'resurrected' him using my mannequin; had to slap it hard against his face a few times. He slept like the dead. And don't press the cotton ball too hard! It stings!"

"So... he woke up to the kiss of a mannequin and found himself in the..."

"Quite so."

Silence.

"And then he came after you and punched..."

"Yeah. Punched me in the face. Not quite happy with that part, but his morning rage is hard to dodge."

More silence.

"Did you..."

"Film it on my phone? Everything. Well, nearly everything. You didn't expect me to get the punch in the face, did you?"

The final silence was short. Soon, the lab was filled with a most unusual sound.

It was a mixture of low baritone chuckles and soft high giggles, resonating down the terribly-lit hallway, signalling the start of a delightful new day in the St. Bart's morgue.


End file.
